Just Like Otters
by StarsHideYourFires
Summary: To keep from drifting apart, sea otters link paws with one another when they sleep. A year after Sherlock's fall, John is doing his best to cope with the death of his best friend. When said best friend is suddenly in his flat and stammering apologies, John lets his temper get the better of him, if only for a moment. Mostly rated for language.


A/N: So, I kept having that pic of the sea otters sleeping and holding hands showing up on my Tumblr dash and it gave me all these feels. And then this fic happened. I couldn't help it.

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, or any of the related characters and plotlines, in any incarnation. This particular version of Holmes very much belongs to Moffat and Gatiss.

Just Like Otters

"I think I'm losing my mind, Greg." John presses a palm against his temple as he closes his eyes and draws in a deep breath. "I swear to god, I've been seeing him all over the place."

"It's been a year, John. You're under a lot of stress, it's a deep emotional… scar thing… I know I've seen plenty of people who looked enough like Sherlock to make me look twice. And it's just what your brain does when you lose someone. You're fine." He pauses as John makes an irritated noise before taking a swig of his drink. "Well, at the very least you're sane." Greg amends with a smile, but his eyes are sad as he looks at his friend. They both had gone through hell after the… Incident at Bart's, and that equaled a pretty solid support system now, complete with weekly pub nights and John crashing at Greg's place until he was able to move out of 221 B Baker Street. And sometimes ending up back at Greg's because being alone sucks, or he'd gotten a late night phone call because they needed to watch action movies or a match, or… something.

John shakes his head, "No, I haven't been seeing people who look like him, I've seen him. I know Sherlock when I see him." He pauses, running his tongue over his bottom lip. "Just tell me again that my mind is playing tricks on me and be done with it."

"You're mind is playing tricks on you," Greg says with a smile. This time it reaches his eyes. "Are you going to be alright tonight? Because I can call Molly and cancel. She knows I'm here, and she understands—"

"Greg, no, I'll be okay. Go, see Molly; tell her that I'm still on for lunch tomorrow before we go to visit… Him." He stands up and pulls on his jacket. Greg just raises an eyebrow as he takes a drink. "I promise. I'll be fine," he adds with a laugh.

"If you say so."

* * *

John fumbles for his keys, gripping the doorknob as his fingers grope around his jacket pocket; he twists his hand as he continues his search and the door opens on its own. _That can't be right_, he thinks_, I locked it when I went to meet Greg…_ Slowly, he pushes the door open further and is greeted by an unexpected, but wholly familiar sight. His knees go out, and John catches himself against the door frame. The dull sound of his hand hitting the wood brings the attention of the world's only consulting detective squarely to his face.

"John," Sherlock starts, moving to his feet, his deep baritone vibrating in John's ears. He opens his mouth again to say more, but no words come out.

"How?" John asks as he crosses his tiny flat, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Just tell me how." He pauses, squeezing his eyes shut before looking directly up into Sherlock's face. "You were dead, Sherlock. I watched you jump. I saw your broken body on the pavement. I buried you. I stood next to your brother as I watched you get lowered into the ground. I went back to my therapy sessions. I mourned. My life was starting to get back to normal." His voice breaks as he speaks, the tension in his chest cutting off his air. John looks down and clears his throat. "How are you here?"

Sherlock reaches out a hand, his fingers so close to brushing against John's cheek before he retracts. He moves his hand back to his side, pressing it against his leg, and then he speaks. "I am so sorry, John. I wish I could have spared you this pain, but I had to fake my death; I knew it would be Moriarty's endgame and—"

"And you didn't think you could tell me your brilliant plan?" John says, bile rising in his throat. "You couldn't trust me with the fact that you were alive?"

Pacing now, Sherlock's movements become frenetic, but he keeps his attention focused on John. "Moriarty was going to have you killed! You, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. The only way to save you was to kill myself, complete his story. I thought I could out think him, had him pinned down too until he ate that bullet. I was doing my best to stay, John. I swear I was. But he forced my hand and I had to implement my back up plan. Molly helped."

"Molly knew? Molly fucking knew!" John's face reddened, his vision blurring until the tears finally begin to slide down his face. "How could she…? She's been so normal about it. So kind. And now, with Greg—"

"John, calm down."

"I do not want to calm down, Sherlock! I just found out that the last year of my life has been filled with lies. Why should I be calm? I mean, my god, Molly Hooper, who you never gave the time of day, she gets to know the truth, to help you, but I have to sit here, night after night, thinking that I'm stuck with a world that no longer has you in it!" John moves to block Sherlock into a corner, keeping him from pacing anymore.

Grabbing the sides of John's face, Sherlock hisses, "How else would I be able to convincingly fake my own death to my best friend, the doctor? I needed someone with enough medical knowledge and a connection to the morgue. And Moriarty never would have looked at her twice. It was the safest option. Mycroft didn't even know for the first two days." His eyes drift down to John's tightly clenched left hand. "I've been working to remove the remains of Moriarty's network in order to ensure your safety."

John just looks at his back-from-the-dead best friend, letting the silence settle between them for a moment. Then he takes a step forward. "Alright. You utter fucking bastard, alright," he says. He lets his hand go slack before throwing his arms around Sherlock's torso. "Thank you, for coming back," he whispers.

Sherlock brings his arms around John and holds him in a tight embrace. "If there had been another option I would have taken it. I never wanted to hurt you." John leans his head against Sherlock's shoulder, and Sherlock lets him, pressing his cheek against John's hair.

"I know you would have," John says. "And if you ever do something like that again, I'll kill you myself." At that, Sherlock's arms relax a bit and both men burst out laughing, much as they had after their first case together. John feels Sherlock pull away from him, just a bit, and even though his brain screams for him to release his friend, he finds his arms pulling Sherlock closer. "Does anyone else know you're back?" he asks, the question half-muffled by Sherlock's coat.

"You were the first person I told. No one matters more than you do." At that John finally drops his arms and steps back, looking up into his friend's face. Sherlock smiles, one of his rare, full-face ones. "That, and I'm not ready to face Mrs. Hudson yet."

"I expected as much," John says, smiling broadly. "She's going to let you have it," he adds with a chuckle.

"I figured possible bodily harm was a better risk than a scolding from her."

"Possible bodily harm? You know I wouldn't hurt you. Even after everything you put me through… I just want you safe, here." He leaves the _with me_ unsaid.

"And I don't intend to leave again."

"Good."

Then John realizes that he has left the lights off and it has gotten dark enough that he is afraid of running into his coffee table. He shuffles over to the lamp and clicks it on, filling the room with soft yellow light. The dark rings under Sherlock's eyes suddenly become glaringly prominent, and John sees just how hollow his face had grown.

"Do you want to get a takeaway? There's a decent Chinese down the street—not as good as the one by home, but—" John catches himself, realizing what he has just said.

"I'd like that, John. Order whatever you want, you know what I like. I'm just going to use your toilet if you don't mind."

"Yeah. Yeah, sure. That's fine," John says. He busies himself ordering the takeaway, and is still on the phone when Sherlock steps out of the loo, his jacket now folded over his arm, revealing the grey hooded sweatshirt he has practically lived in during the past six months. It makes him look about ten years younger, and John feels his chest tighten as he watches Sherlock sit on the sofa again. "Yes, and an order of spring rolls," he finishes, confirming the address before hanging up and wandering over to Sherlock, already sprawling himself across the plush seats, his jacket discarded against the wall.

He looks down at his friend, marveling again over the fact that Sherlock is here. Sherlock stares back, hands steepled in front of his face, just as they always are when he's thinking. "So," John starts, "Are you going to tell me what's happened for the past year. Maybe explain how you survived your… fall." He stops, turns away for a moment, and then moves to the other end of the sofa, pushing Sherlock's legs over so he can sit down. "On second thought, no. Don't tell me right now. I don't care enough and I don't want to think about it. You'll have to explain it to Greg tomorrow anyway, and then Molly will be able to help you."

Sherlock sits up. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm meeting Greg and Molly tomorrow. Sort of a memorial service. Anyway, you're coming with me, might as well get it out of the way. And show Greg that I wasn't going crazy after all."

"Okay," Sherlock says, casually sliding his feet onto John's lap. John reaches for the remote, turning on his television and putting on a stupid crime drama that he knows Sherlock will hate, deducing the culprit in five minutes and complaining that it's too simple. But Sherlock doesn't say anything. He just stays still, eyes drifting shut once or twice as they wait for the food to arrive. When it does, John gets up to retrieve it and pay; as he walks back into the flat Sherlock says, "I missed you too, you know."

"What?" John asks as he sets down the bag on the coffee table.

"I missed you too. The first month I kept waiting for you to say something when I was running around Germany, for you to call me an idiot or confirm some part of my analysis. But you were never there and I know it's my fault." He swings his feet onto the floor as he sits properly for the first time since reentering John's life. He says, "I have never missed someone as much as I missed you, John Watson. You're my best friend. I'm sorry for leaving you."

John stares into Sherlock's eyes, transfixed by the green-blue irises that are looking at him with such genuine care. He feels heat rising in his cheeks and turns away, embarrassed. "My limp came back. While you were gone."

"Mycroft told me," Sherlock says.

"It got better when I went back to work. I bet Mycroft told you I quit the surgery too. That I'm at Bart's now. Do some consultation work for the Met."

"Yes, he told me that too. He said you were doing well. That you seemed happy enough."

"Not enough. Sometimes I was happy, but I haven't been happy enough until tonight."

* * *

After finishing the takeaway—Sherlock eats more than John did for the first time, and afterwards he had asks if John has any biscuits—they watch more mindless telly, sometimes ignoring it in favor of talking, and sometimes enjoying the calm comfort of being together again, having no need for words to express their contentment. Sherlock falls asleep first, his body curled up to one side of the sofa. John fetches a blanket and lays it over Sherlock, careful not to wake him, before going to his bedroom and falling into a fitful sleep.

An hour later John jerks awake, his body clammy with terror. Sherlock stands beside his bed, running a nervous hand through his sleep-tousled curls. "Mycroft said your nightmares had come back too."

"Does he have cameras in my flat?"

"Possibly." Sherlock glances around the sparse room, before returning his gaze to John. "I have a hypothesis: Your brain does not entirely trust that I have returned to you, alive. My brain is much too accustomed to my solitary state. We need further confirmation of being near one another for our brains to feel comfortable enough to sleep. We need to sleep. Therefore, we should hold hands."

"What?" John asks. Sherlock simply extends his hand, purses his lips, and tilts his head to the side. "Never mind, physical contact, happy brains." He takes hold of Sherlock's proffered hand and then scoots over on the bed, pulling Sherlock along with him.

They lay there, together, hands clasped, fingers lightly intertwined. John pushes out a long, slow breath. Sherlock bites his lips before gently squeezing John's fingers, an action John returns; mere minutes later they have both fallen back to sleep safe in the knowledge that they have each other, that they will not wake up alone.


End file.
